


Tinpot Alley

by sawbones



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Gore, Hurt/Attempted Comfort, M/M, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 09:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11621052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sawbones/pseuds/sawbones
Summary: Three Templars went on patrol; one came back.





	Tinpot Alley

**Author's Note:**

> This is an excerpt from a far longer fic I started years ago, and will likely never finish. Still, I think of it fondly and figured at least some of it shouldn't fester in my WIP graveyard for eternity. Unbeta'd, and written pre-Inquisition release. Make of that what you will.
> 
> *PLEASE NOTE THE ARCHIVE WARNING*
> 
> I can't be the only one who had nightmares about Crushing Prison?

It was just a routine sweep of Darktown. 

  
That’s what they told Carver when he had read the rota and mistook his uninterested silence for apprehension: just a simple walk through with another recruit and a more experienced Templar to show them the way. It was a typical afternoon in the guts of the city, humid and dim, but their leader didn’t seem to mind; he was a portly red-faced man by the name of Ser Easton who never missed a step in the gloom, never let the rankness and the rabble interrupt his cheerful running commentary. He had a crisp map folded in his fist, the closest thing to a real map of Darktown anyone had ever cared to make. It was scattered with neat black crosses and notes that he took care to point out and explain as they went; the other recruit – another Ferelden with a helmet that never sat quite right because of the rope of blonde hair tucked into it - stuck close to him and listened eagerly, but Carver let himself fall behind. He knew the stinking pit better than he wished he did, including dozens of tunnels and hide-holes the Templars hadn’t found yet. Athenril and her ilk had taught him well, and though the work had left a bitter taste in his mouth he still kept it shut.

  
They moved slowly through the main shanty town, moving towards the outskirts in the opposite direction from Anders’ clinic. It was as busy as Darktown was likely to ever be; a handful of stalls scattered around, goods laid out on threadbare blankets as hawkers tried to coax people into looking, vagrants and immigrants and refugees weaving between lean-to huts and waste piles. Hungry faces watched them pass, some with suspicion or fear, most with tired indifference. Every now and again a whoop would cut above the white noise and copper-palmed urchins would scatter, or some milk-eyed old mother would give three steady knocks against a wall with a gnarled walking stick or an equally gnarled fist – a warning of who was coming. _Templars, Templars_. Ser Easton didn’t seem to pay them any mind. They weren’t there on a hunt, and he was probably too old and too fat to have much of the fanatic left in him if there ever was any to begin with.

  
Caver pushed aside a scrap of cloth that served as a door to some hovel, and lying on a broken cot within was a half-starved young woman. She blinked up at him slowly, seemingly unafraid, but her eyes were unfocused and wet and Carver wasn’t sure she could even see him. He let the cloth drop again. He felt pity and disgust as one, and shame because of it; if his brother was there surely he would do something, but he wasn’t, and to everyone else she was just another lost soul rotting away in the undercity. Up ahead Easton made a joke about lunch, the punchline of it lost in the droning rabble, but the other recruit laughed anyway and Carver couldn’t think of an uglier sound in a place like that. He was still hovering by the door when she half-turned and waved him over as their leader disappeared around another corner. He was about to take a step forward when suddenly the world went white inside his helmet and a solid wall of heat nearly knocked him clean off his feet.

  
With ears ringing and spots dancing in his vision, Carver groped for his sword and staggered forward. The others were sprawled in the dirt where the force of the fireball had dropped them; the Ferelden was struggling to pull herself to her feet, Easton was not. He was slumped against the wall like a drunkard, his head lolling tellingly at an unnatural angle and despite the heat Carver felt ice in his belly.

  
He was around the corner in seconds, heavy boots nearly sliding from under him, throwing a Smite from his raised fist with enough force to give his attackers pause but too inaccurate to stop them. There were three of them, two boys and a girl in drab grey robes and hoods, and if he had to guess he would say none were out of their teens yet. One of the boys turned tail and ran before Carver could even raise his sword, disappearing down another side-alley. The others stood their ground; the lad advanced, swiping at him with a wicked scythe-bladed staff. Carver knocked each lunge aside easily, but arcs of blue-white lightning leapt with every hit and he gritted his teeth against the twisting pain and the numbness in his hands. The boy was quick but he was weak, his flashes of fire and electricity doing more damage to the ceiling than to anyone else, and with each swing Carver drove him back a step. Once his back hit a wall, the boy threw down his staff and raised his hands, this time to surrender rather than to cast – Carver knocked him out cold with the pommel of his sword and left him in the dirt.

  
Behind him the other recruit had recovered and was harrying the female mage’s barrier with short sharp blows, the glowing surface rippling and swelling under the strain. It was thinning, flickering in some places as it started to fail, and the girl within gave a panicked cry. He flanked her carefully, catching his comrade’s eye as he came around the side and gathered a Silence as a precaution, for she was surely powerful to have kept up a barrier for so long. The Templar raised her sword for a final blow, bringing it down over her head in a powerful arc. As soon as it touched the glowing surface, the whole thing disappearing with a crackle of static. Her blade slid through it, only slowed a little, and bit into the side of the young mage.

  
The effect was immediate, but time itself seemed to slow to a crawl. The mage groped at her side, her fingers pressing into the wicked wound there. She held up her hands, slick with blood, staring at them with her mouth a perfect “o” of surprise. Carver and his companion stayed their blades, waiting for her to realise it was over, that she was done – but she didn’t. She wasn’t. She blinked, then her face contorted in pure ugly anger, her bloodied hands balled into fists and with a scream, she sent them both hurtling down the corridor before they could react. Carver landed on his back hard enough to wind himself, and the other Templar crashed face-down beside him. Panic seized him as he blindly scrabbled in the dirt for his sword, his chest tight and aching, but it wasn’t there. His head was throbbing, swimming, he could barely breathe. The Silence he had gathered was gone and he didn’t have enough in him to pull another one so soon.

  
Beside him the Ferelden was closer to her sword than he was, and she was already reaching for it when there was a pulse of hot blue light that jerked her backwards. She gave a shriek of pain and panic, her fingers scoring lines in the dirt as she was hauled into the air as though someone had grabbed her collar. Her body spasmed and stiffened like she was being electrocuted, her limbs kicking and twitching desperately as she tried to move but couldn’t. Carver was paralysed, frozen in place even as she reached out for him, her fingers trembling and her shrieks strangled through clenched teeth as they snapped one by one. Her right arm twisted backwards at the elbow with a crack that made the bile rise in his throat. She screamed and screamed, her cries mingling with the squeals of her armour as it buckled, the metal rending as her greaves split, crushing her legs. He could see her eyes through the slit of her helmet, wide in horror, as wide as his own – _Morag, her name is Morag; she was a tinker, came from Denerim with her nephew, he’s only seven and smiles with no front teeth_ – and then half her cuirass collapsed. Her helmet crumpled like a tin pot under a cart wheel, and a glut of blood slopped through her visor to splatter his legs. She hung there for a moment, her limbs all askew like a broken puppet before the light went out, the strings were cut and she dropped in a heap at his feet.

  
It was dark and quiet once Morag was dead; the spell was over, the torches on the wall had been blown out. There was shouting from somewhere in the distance, but it could have been miles away. Carver couldn’t make it out, could hardly hear it over the bloodrush pounding in his ears, his own heaving breaths. There was a burning in his chest, an ache in his head, he could barely see or even move. It took nearly all he had to throw himself onto his side, his legs skittering uselessly beneath him as he tried to push himself to his feet but he was too weak. There was a flicker of light as a wisp spluttered into existence, throwing its master into cold illumination. She looked exhausted, what little of her face he could under the hood was pale and grim, half her robes were slick with blackish blood. Her eyes were wild, staring at Carver with the hatred and fear of a caged animal; her hands were twisted into claws, held out ready to strike with whatever she could draw.

  
Carver felt as through a lightning bolt had ripped through him, igniting every nerve in his body. He threw himself at her, faster than he knew he could move, faster that she could ever have expected, catching her around her waist and dragging her to the ground. He twisted so that he landed heavily on top; he was no small man and in full armour the weight at least enough to wind her, if not break a rib or two. She struggled ferociously, striking at him with her small fists but he knocked them away easily, grabbed her one-handed by her throat and banged her head off the floor. She gasped, grunted in pain, shaking her head violently, causing her hood to slip off and a mess of long black hair to escape; Carver drew back his fist and she cried out – _black hair falling across her face, brown eyes accusing as a red mark blooms across her pale cheek; “You hit me!” she says with all the hurt and hate of child, “I’ll tell father!”_ – and brought it down once, twice, again and again until the blood burst from her nose, until he could feel the crunch of loose bone, until he was the only one still screaming and strong hands grabbed him from behind, lifting him up and away from her while he still tried to strike out weakly. There were raised voices, shouts, bodies moving around him but he couldn’t see. Whoever was holding him wasn’t letting go, a breath in his ear telling him he was safe.

\--

  
They left him sitting on a crate in a quiet corner while they cleaned up and the world slowly came back into focus. There had been a few sideways looks, a few pats on the shoulder like he’d done a good job, but mostly Carver was left alone. His head felt like it had been split with an axe and he was sure he had at least a few bruised ribs, although they didn’t hurt so much if he didn’t move. He felt strangely calm and empty, like someone had cut him down the middle and pulled everything out, or the morning after a storm when the air was light and clear but felled trees still blocked the roads. His skirts were stiff with gore, and there was black hair caught in the knuckle joints of his gauntlets. Black hair, blood, bone chips. He flexed his fingers.  
She looked a bit like Bethany, for a little while at least.

  
Carver tried to breathe through it, the bubble of disgust and bile those rose up in him, but he couldn’t push it away. His skin was crawling, he felt slick and sticky with her blood all over him; he retched, nearly clapped a hand over his mouth before he remembered what was on them and retched again. He tried to wipe them on his skirts but they were soaked through too, and he started to panic. He had to get them off, he had to be clean but he was too clumsy to undo the fastening, too desperate. There was a stabbing pain in his chest and he struggled to breath, gulping down great choking lungfuls with no effect.

  
“Ser Carver,” – it was the voice from before, soft and steady. Carver opened eyes he didn’t realise he had shut and found himself face to face with Knight-Captain Cullen on one knee before him, “It’s alright Ser Carver, slow down. Count your breaths.”

  
He took Carver’s shaking hands, and began to deftly undo the bolts on his gauntlets. He tossed them to the side once they were off, followed by the sweat soaked liners underneath. He wasn’t wearing his own gauntlets, and his fingers were warm and dry as they examined Carver’s, turning them over to check for bruises or sores. Cullen unhooked a small canteen from his belt and splashed a little water on his hands, carefully and methodically washing away any imagined stain. His touch was so firm and gentle, and Carver could feel the panic ebb away with each stroke. Tears pricked his eyes and he turned his head, suddenly ashamed to let his Captain see him in such a state.

  
“There we are. No harm done,” Cullen said softly. He used his own skirts to pat Carver’s hands dry, and waited patiently until he could stand to look at him again. His face was solemn, the circles beneath his eyes as dark as ever, but he was still holding Carver’s hands clasped in his own, “You did a good job here today, Carver. I know it doesn’t look like it from where you’re sitting, but because of you we managed to apprehend three dangerous apostates. This disaster could have become a catastrophe without you.”

  
Carver nodded mutely. He didn’t want to be congratulated. He didn’t want shoulder pats and respectful nods from the other Templars, blown-up whispers that he was the sole survivor from his first expedition who took down three apostates on his own. He didn’t want to kill that girl with his own two fists. _Apprehend._ Such a clean and removed word for such a fucking nightmare. Cullen smiled tightly at him, let go of his hands and helped him to his feet.

  
“Go back to the Gallows and report to Reid. I want you to have a few days off; go see your family, take some time to clear your head,“ Cullen said, his voice low. He leaned a fraction closer to Carver, his eyes sliding from him to the other men at work and back again. He looked uncomfortable, “You may find this difficult to deal with and I want you to know—“

  
“I know,” Carver said, cutting him off. He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to take time off to clear his head or see his family. His mother would take one look at him and _know_ , know like he knew and Maker he wish he didn’t. He didn’t want to go home and have his brother’s fingers dip into the hurt and pick and _pick_ until he pried it out into the open, and they would fight and scream and hate each other all over again. Carver made himself look Cullen in the eye so he thought he was genuine, even forced a thin-lipped smile, “I’ll be fine with some rest, ser. Thank you. I just—I need to rest.”


End file.
